


Transference

by galerian_ash



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 14:46:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15910416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galerian_ash/pseuds/galerian_ash
Summary: "He really liked you, Lieutenant. That's what killed him."





	Transference

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday, Hank! This... is not the fluffy fic I had planned on posting, but it's the thought that counts? I'm so sorry.
> 
> This takes place directly after the route in the game where Connor chooses to save Hank in the CyberLife Tower, but then fails to make a follow-up choice during the QTE. I have no idea how to tag this, but please be warned that it's a bit dark — I'd like to think it has a hopeful ending, though!

_He really liked you, Lieutenant. That's what killed him._

He can't feel remorse. He knows this, yet the words keep echoing in his head. It's coupled with the sight of Hank Anderson, slumped on the floor and staring at the dead Connor.

Killing the deviant had meant nothing to him. It was his mission, nothing more. But Hank, the look on his face...

It's all over now, and he needs to report in for deactivation. He's the last RK800; the last Connor. The series has been a failure, as evidenced by his predecessor's deviancy. They're already obsolete, anyway — he's seen the RK900, knows it's better than him in every way.

The elevator comes to a stop at level -49. He doesn't know why he's here, doesn't understand why he's going against a direct order.

_He really liked you, Lieutenant._

Hank is still there. He has moved to the other side of the room, and is sitting leaned against the wall. The dead Connor is in his arms.

Connor walks up to them. "Why are you still here?" he asks.

Hank doesn't answer.

"It's over. Markus has been terminated, and the uprising quelled. The remaining androids are being recycled as we speak."

Hank's grip on the other Connor tightens. "You're not taking him. He stays with me."

"Why? I made certain to shoot all of his vital biocomponents. He can never be repaired or reactivated."

"He stays with me," Hank repeats.

"As you wish. It makes no difference. Like I said, it's all over."

"I heard you." He doesn't look up at Connor, refuses to meet his gaze. Somehow that bothers him. "So I killed all of them, too. It's my fault."

Connor is silent. He'd meant it as a — a kindness, of sorts. Bringing closure to Hank, ensuring he could get up and go home. Move on.

But Hank isn't the type to move on, is he? Connor knows this because he has his predecessor's memories; they're inside of him like some kind of parasite, making him ignore orders.

It's all wrong. It's not supposed to be this way. He's not a deviant.

"Aren't you going to kill me?" Hank says. It sounds more like a request than a question.

"I told him I'd only do what was strictly necessary to accomplish my mission. That was the truth."

"Then go get someone else to do it."

"CyberLife has no interest in killing a police officer. Why would they? Go home, Lieutenant."

Hank is still refusing to look at him. His hand slowly strokes the dead Connor's head, smoothing back the hair from his forehead. Hank's fingers are stained blue.

"Maybe I'll kill you, instead." Hank says it with a small smile, but there's no real joy in it. His face is wet with tears, eyelashes spiked and glistening in the light.

He gently places the dead Connor on the ground and stands up. Finally, finally, he looks at Connor.

"You took him from me," he says, walking closer. His voice is hoarse and filled with pain. "You killed him."

He raises his hands and places them around Connor's neck, squeezing. There is nothing but hatred in his eyes.

"That won't work," Connor reminds him. "I don't need to breathe. And you're not strong enough to tear my head from my body."

It doesn't seem to matter to Hank. He keeps squeezing, a couple of fresh tears escaping the corners of his eyes. Then, abruptly, he lets go and grabs Connor's gun. He sees it coming; could stop it easily.

He doesn't.

The gun is pointed at his head. Hank's hand is trembling. It reminds him of that night in Riverside Park.

Except that wasn't _him_.

"Don't look at me," Hank orders. "Don't you fucking dare look at me with his eyes, his face, his..." he trails off, voice breaking.

Connor closes his eyes.

Thirty-nine seconds later the gun falls clattering to the floor. Connor opens his eyes again. Hank is walking away from him, returning to the other Connor.

Hank crouches down to pick him up, and then carries him to the elevator.

"Where are you going?"

"We're going home."

Connor watches them leave. Then he walks to the elevator too. He has accomplished his mission; the one he set for himself. Now it's time to obey and do what he was supposed to.

It's time. But — Hank.

It's as if there's an invisible rope that ties him to the human. It was tugging gently at first, but now it's yanking at him hard enough to hurt.

And he isn't even supposed to be able to feel pain.

CyberLife clearly has their hands full. No one even tries to stop him as he leaves. He just walks straight out, and once he reaches a public road he gets a taxi.

He can hear Sumo the second he steps out of the car. He's barking and howling mournfully, the sound coming from the bedroom. Perhaps Hank has locked him in there.

It doesn't feel right to use the front door, somehow. Connor walks around the house, and looks through the kitchen window.

Hank is sitting at the table, drinking from a bottle of whisky. His .357 Magnum is lying in front of him. There's a single bullet in the cylinder, chamber aligned with the barrel and ready to be fired. No Russian roulette, just plain suicide.

The dead Connor is sitting on the chair next to him.

Hank's eyes are red-rimmed and dry, as if he has no more tears to shed. His gaze is fastened on the dead Connor, as if he's unable to look away. Hank raises the bottle towards him in a silent toast, drinking one last time before smashing it against the floor.

His hand moves to the revolver.

Connor doesn't hesitate. He breaks the window — again, again, again, he's done this once before — and jumps through.

Hank doesn't look at him. He just sits there, completely still aside from his shaking shoulders. He's crying again.

Connor walks up to stand behind him. He slides one arm around Hank's chest in a loose embrace, letting his other hand move up to Hank's face, covering his eyes.

"Let go of the gun, please."

Hank drops it in favor of gripping Connor's arm, fingers digging into him. "Connor...?"

He's not. Not in the way Hank wants him to be, in any case.

But he'd like to try.

"Yes," he says, as tears slide from beneath his fingers, "it's me."


End file.
